


the gratitude of bladed things

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Derealization, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Pre-Slash, Self-Harm, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5382287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>* (It's a family photograph.)<br/>* (Everyone is smiling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the gratitude of bladed things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [light_rises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_rises/gifts).



> _(the loveliest lies of all_ – you have come and made my dreams smaller, narrower)
> 
> so light [made a post](http://lightrises.tumblr.com/post/134772009687/undertale-spoilers) and i was upset enough to write fic in the tags when i reblogged it and then i decided to make it an Actual Fic i guess?

It’s the first thing you see when you wake up, most mornings.

This is good, because even though you’ve been here for a few months now you still tend to wake up disoriented. The surface under you is too soft, your body is too warm, there are too many blankets on top of you, weighing you down and lulling you into a sense of security that you can’t afford. Your clothes are clean, and their texture doesn’t feel like sandpaper on your skin when you move and breathe. So you try to stifle the noise of your breathing, hold absolutely still, and crack your eyes open slowly, so that you won’t betray your wakefulness to whoever might have put you here.

And, through the dim light, there’s the photo frame on the dresser. Your vision clears. That’s you, there, in the middle—arms full of flowers, the smile that usually sits awkward on your face somehow transformed into something natural by the camera. The people who surround you are not the ones you came from. The boy is soft and round and white-furred; the man and the woman are as large as they are gentle. Their hands supporting you and their son are soft, supportive.

You remember the photograph being taken. You remember the failed attempts that preceded it, hiding your face at the last minute, on the edge of tears because you were so sure you would make it all wrong somehow. But Toriel said that it was all right, and Asgore told you that it didn’t matter, and Asriel said that your smiles were always, always perfect.

“We love you, Chara,” you remember them saying. They tell you that so often. You don’t—you don’t understand yet, you don’t know if you’ll understand _ever,_ but you’re starting to think it’s… nice.

Without sitting up, you look around the room with its muted colors, and this time you recognize it. You’re lying in your bed—a _real bed—_ and the soft noise coming from the other side of the room is Asriel’s sleepy breathing. It’s still early, and even if you wanted to turn it on, the light’s over by his bed. He’s the one who’s bothered by the dark. The faint outlines of his toys are still visible on the floor.

You recognize it all, but you still shift under the comforter to pinch at your forearm. You need the pain to make sure you’re not dreaming. You need to know you can still hurt, so that you know this is real.

Tired fingers can’t pinch with much strength, so you try to scratch next. You have to chew your fingernails off when they get long, so they’re always uneven enough to catch. Little flashes of heat run in the path of your fingernails, tingly and bright, but they fade away so quickly. You raise your wrist to your mouth and bite it softly, then harder. Harder. You taste skin, then iron. It stings. Even when you pull your hand away, it keeps stinging.

The relief makes you go shaky, or—maybe you were already shaking. You don’t know. It doesn’t matter. The pain in your arm makes everything feel much more solid.

You’re not dreaming. You’re not. All of this—everything since you managed to screw up dying, it’s all real. It’s hard to breathe and it hurts and you don’t know why, but—but this isn’t a bad feeling. This feeling like teeth closed in your chest, like biting down on something slowly to savor the taste. You want to keep it, always.

The spot over your heart is warm from you rubbing it, and you’re so absorbed in the sensation that it startles you a little when you hear Asriel’s muzzy voice: “Chara?”

“Huh?”

He sits up. You blink to clear your vision momentarily, and his silhouette unblurs: His sleepshirt is hitched up and askew and his fur is sticking out every which way. He gropes for the pull chain on the lamp, and you half close your eyes so that the light won’t make it worse. This makes it easier to blink without it being too noticeable anyway.

“Why are you crying?” His voice is more distinct now, and he sounds puzzled. “Did you have a scary dream? Are you okay?”

You rub your face on your sleeve and take a deep breath that shudders. “It’s—it’s nothing, Ree. It’s still early. Go back to sleep.”

But he just sits there for a minute and doesn’t do anything. The light’s right behind him, and your eyes can’t handle the contrast enough to make his expression out.

“If you say so, Chara,” he says at length.

You pull the covers back up to your shoulder, but Asriel doesn’t lie down. Instead, he stretches his legs out over the edge of his bed, flexing his toes before he relaxes his knees. The soft pat his paw pads make against the wooden floor is a great noise; you love the sound of his claws too. But you’re drawing a blank as to why he’s—standing up, now, and not even fixing his sheets. No, he’s coming across the room towards you.

There’s a second where you’re worried he’s going to check on you like Toriel does—she doesn’t really like you pinching yourself, she doesn’t get why you need to, but she’s hidden all the sharp things and fixed the fire so you can’t burn yourself anymore and so what are you _supposed_ to do to ground yourself, what does she _want_ you to do with all the awful things you can’t put into words—but. When Asriel pulls your covers out of your grip it’s not to scrutinize you. He just levers himself up onto the mattress next to you, and you scooch over to make room for him on automatic.

Asriel wraps the covers back around his own shoulder and settles down on the pillow, his nose about an inch from yours.

“Oh my god, Asriel,” you say, and you reach out to—you don’t know, shove at him some, but your palms just stop on his chest. His shirt’s soft underneath your fingers, and he’s warm underneath it. “What are you doing. I’m gonna push you out.”

“I’m going back to sleep like you said,” he says, matter-of-fact. “’Night, Chara.”

“It’s _morning,”_ you protest, like this is what matters. “The crack of dawn, even.”

Asriel just reaches out and wraps his arms around you, pulling you in towards him. He bumps his soft soft nose against your forehead and rubs it there, sort of like a kiss, and something happy and tickly bubbles up in your chest without your permission. You duck your head to get away, and bury your face in his chest instead.

He’s warm warm warm, warm like the dappled filtered spots of light in Asgore’s garden, warm like Toriel’s chair, warm like Asgore’s tea and Toriel’s cooking. Warm like himself. He’s soft and fuzzy, and despite his teeth and his claws and his magic he’s the most harmless creature you’ve ever seen in your whole life. He’s squishy and gentle. You can poke his arm and you can’t get far enough down to touch his bones, and he has a round soft tummy like he’s never in his life had to go days between meals the way you have. He’s the sun, only better, because he doesn’t expose you to people who want to hurt you. He never _ever_ hurts you on purpose.

You snuggle your face into his chest and breathe in. He smells like flowers and earth and last night’s pie and fabric softener, and he smells like Asriel. You feel—you don’t know what to call it, but you’re relaxing, automatically. You snake your arm over his middle to hug him back.

“I love you, Chara,” he says. “You’re my best friend.”

“Yeah, I—” Your voice is muffled in his front, and around the lump in your throat. When did that even get there. “I love you too, Ree.”

Asriel’s arms squeeze around you for a moment, soft, careful.

He’s left the lights on, which casts the room in soft gold shades. It’s warm here, encircled by gentle arms, on top of a nice mattress, weighted down by blanket after blanket.

You close your eyes.

 

 

 

_It hurts._

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Your insides are burning, it feels like you’ve got a dozen knives in your stomach, even breathing is like swallowing razors. You can’t move your hands—they’re bandaged too stiffly. You can’t move your legs—they’ve stopped responding to you at all. Even if you wanted to scream—no sound would come out. You’re too hoarse from crying. You taste blood, and flowers, nastier than horseradish, a constant threat of bile at the back of your blistered and swollen throat._

_You want Toriel. You want Toriel, you want Asgore, you want Asriel, you want—_

_You tilt your chin back and stare at the photo, and you feel your resolve return._

_They were happy, all of them, before you came here. They deserve better than this place. Better than you. And you can do that for them. If you have to suffer on the way, well, that’s your just desserts after what you did._

_You have to do this for them._

_You_ will _do this for them._

_Pain is temporary. Everything will be all over soon enough. And then—_

_Then you’ll settle this. The only way you know how._

_It’s comfortable here. Even though you’re sticky with sweat and tears and grosser things, it’s soft, and warm, and real. They all love you so much, little as you deserve it._

_So you’ll do this for them. Because you love them, too._

_You keep your eyes trained on the photograph. It’s the last thing you see before you close them._


End file.
